Page 43 of The Lost Duke of Wyndham

He loved women, of course. He liked them, too, which he was aware made him rather unique among men. He loved the way they moved, and he loved the sounds they made, whether they were melting in his arms or clucking their disapproval. He loved how each one smelled different, and how each moved differently, and how even so, there was something about them all as a group that seemed to brand them together. I am woman, the air around them seemed to say. I am most definitely not you.

And thank heavens for that.

But he had never loved a woman. And he did not have any inclination to do so. Attachments were messy things, given to all sorts of unpleasantries. He preferred to move from affaire to affaire. It fit his life—and his soul—much better.

He smiled. Just a little one. Exactly the sort one would expect from a man like him at a time like this. Perhaps with a little extra tilt in one corner. Just enough to lend some wry wit to his tone when he said, “You stepped into my room.”

She nodded, but the motion was so slow he couldn’t be sure she even realized she was doing it. When she spoke, there was a certain dazedness to it, as if perhaps she was talking to herself. “I won’t do it again.”

Now, that would be a tragedy. “I wish you would,” he said, offering her his most disarming smile. He reached out, and before she could guess his intentions, took her hand and raised it to his lips. “It was certainly,” he murmured, “the most pleasant welcome of my day here at Belgrave.”

He did not let go of her fingers as he added, “I very much enjoyed discussing that painting with you.”

It was true. He had always liked the smart women best.

“As did I,” she answered, and then she gave her hand a gentle tug, forcing him to relinquish his hold. She took a few steps toward the door, then paused, turning partway around as she said, “The collection here rivals any of the great museums.”

“I look forward to viewing it with you.”

“We shall begin in the gallery.”

He smiled. She was clever. But just before she reached the door, he called out, “Are there nudes?”

She froze.

“I was wondering,” he said innocently.

“There are,” she replied, but she did not turn around. He longed to see the color of her cheeks. Vermillion, or merely pink?

“In the gallery?” he asked, because surely it would be impolite to ignore his query. He wanted to see her face. One last time.

“Not in the gallery, no,” she said, and she did turn then. Just enough so he could see the sparkle in her eyes. “It is a portrait gallery.”

“I see.” He made his expression appropriately grave. “No nudes, then, please. I confess to a lack of desire to see Great-Grandfather Cavendish au naturel.”

Her lips pressed together, and he knew it was with humor, not disapproval. He wondered just what it would take to nudge her further, to dislodge the laughter that was surely bubbling at the base of her throat.

“Or, good heavens,” he murmured, “the dowager.”

She sputtered at that.

He brought a hand to his forehead. “My eyes,” he moaned. “My eyes.”

And then, bloody hell, he missed it. She laughed. He was sure that she did, even though it was more of a choking sound than anything else. But he had his hand over his eyes.

“Good night, Mr. Audley.”

He returned his hand to its proper place at his side. “Good night, Miss Eversleigh.” And then—and he would have sworn he’d been prepared to allow her to depart—he heard himself call out, “Will I see you at breakfast?”

She paused, her hand on the outer doorknob. “I expect so, if you are an early riser.”

He absolutely was not.

“Absolutely I am.”

“It is the dowager’s favorite meal,” she explained.

“Not the chocolate and the newspaper?” He wondered if he remembered everything she’d said that day. Quite possibly.

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